VIOLENT DELIGHTS | TOMMY SHELBY

CHAPTER SIX

Rehearsal had a strange atmosphere. On one hand, they had all started to have costume fittings, the rich crimsons and lilacs of Don Quixote's Spain a luxury for the company so used to the grey. To Birdie it was a good distraction, to be immersed in a fictional environment of pointe shoes, rosin and tulle.

"We open in a month, there's no need to do fittings now." Conor grumbled quietly to Birdie and Penelope, a member of the corps de ballet. Penelope was the newest member of the company, and held a hand to her mouth to conceal the giggles.

Birdie glanced at her colleague, unfazed by the needles prodding through her skin. Her face was startlingly pale against the violent red of the costume, a product of no makeup and a lack of sleep.

"Are you ill, Birdie?" Penelope asked, when she wasn't utterly mesmerised by the layers of ruffles being spun around her.

"No, in perfect health. Why?" Birdie furrowed her eyebrows, reaching her arms above her head as the company's seamstress took the appropriate measurements. Her fingers knitted together absentmindedly, and she fought the urge to stretch.

"You look pale. Have you eaten today?" Penelope nattered in her usual manner.

"She's just nervous for her date tonight. You're welcome, by the way." Conor said.

"You set us up the first time, Conor, tonight was not your doing." Birdie wagged a finger, slipping out of her tutu and readjusted her black leotard. Katherine, the seamstress, still hovered around her with the measuring tape in her hands.

"Still, I sent you on that hotel date and you're seeing him tonight. You're welcome." Conor jokingly bowed, a teasing grin on his face.

"Look at you, taking all the fucking credit," Birdie chortled, reaching to smack his arm. Katherine, swotted at her waist as she shifted, fully used to the woman's antics. "Fuck, I could use a smoke right now."

"You smoke an awful lot. And drink, too. How are you still alive?" Penelope's question was simple enough, and Birdie couldn't help but chuckle. Conor laughed too, ruffling the young girl's curly brown hair.

"A Small Heath woman has nine lives. I'm teetering on the last two but that's nothing a bit of tobacco and a glass of whiskey can't fix." Birdie shrugged, the confidence rippling off her shoulders.

"Our Birdie smokes like a chimney, yet dances like a swan." Conor proclaimed, reaching over to lift her up by her waist. Birdie let out a cackle of surprise, smacking at his chest. Katherine groaned, swearing under her breath as she returned to the default measurements of the long term principal performers. The action caught the attention of Adelaide, who nudged the dancers near here and pointed. Penelope looked frightened at the exchange, unsure whether or not to step away from the older pair of dancers.

"Hey, Penny. Can I call you that?" Birdie asked, watching Penelope meekly nod. "I want you to take over my position over Adelaide. If you want it, you gotta act like the shitty comments are dust in the wind."

Penelope's dark brown eyes lit up with hope. Birdie didn't know her too well yet, apart from the fact she belonged to the higher classes. Academy trained and father-funded, that was the dream that a young Birdie would have longed for. She felt so strange amongst the younger girls. They were a generation apart, full of hope that Birdie's war would never have to burden them. They were free to dance without the pain of a sanity lost. Without worrying that their youth and innocence could be ripped away. That was the dream.

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The King's Company stood in line for payday, the same routine every week. Toes would tap against the wooden floor and bodies would stretch impatiently as each dancer filed into Madame Laurent's office. Birdie had stood in this line for fifteen years. She had stared at the same stage ropes clustered on the floor, the same splotches of paint from various set pieces. The smell of rosin and sawdust still perfumed the air, the aroma of comfort. It was the epitome of home, but tonight Birdie was longing to run out.